It Was Not In The Winter Our

I Remember, I Remember The Fir-trees Dark And High; I Used To Think Their Slender Tops Were Close Against The Sky; It Was A Childish Ignorance, But Now 't Is Little Joy To Know I'm Farther Off From Heaven Than When I Was A Boy.

How Bravely Autumn Paints Upon The Sky The Gorgeous Fame Of Summer Which Is Fled!

I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty Morn Stand Shadowless Like Silence, Listening To Silence.

Sweet Are The Little Brooks That Run O'er Pebbles Glancing In The Sun, Singing In Soothing Tones.

Mother Of Light! How Fairly Dost Thou Go Over Those Hoary Crests, Divinely Led! Art Thou That Huntress Of The Silver Bow Fabled Of Old? Or Rather Dost Thou Tread Those Cloudy Summits Thence To Gaze Below, Like The Wild Chamois From Her Alpine Snow, Where Hunters Never Climbed--secure From Dread?